Contract
by Idle Leaves
Summary: McCoy should decline--it's what any sane physician would do--but he doesn't.


**Cast:** McCoy, Kirk, with Uhura & Spock  
**Notes:** AU. 1940s-ish. Written in 45 minutes for Chronometric's "beginnings" challenge.  
**Length:** ~850 words.  
**Summary:** McCoy should decline--it's what any sane physician would do--but he doesn't.

**--  
CONTRACT  
--**

The knock at his clinic door comes well into the evening. He shouldn't even be here at this hour, really, but these days there's not much left to go home to.

He opens the door to a woman with alert, dark eyes, umbrella in hand to shield herself from the rain. She looks respectable, but that doesn't count for anything. "Evening, ma'am," he greets.

"Evening, Doctor," she replies, cordial but cool, then moves to step inside. He allows it. "Uhura," she says, introducing herself as the latch clicks behind her. "I'll get straight to the point. I have a friend who needs immediate medical attention with a certain amount of, shall we say, discretion." McCoy raises an eyebrow. "You would, of course, be well compensated," she finishes.

"All right," he says, but not in agreement. _Discretion_ can mean a lot of things in this city. "Does this _friend_ of yours have a name?"

"James Kirk."

The name's familiar. It's no secret to anyone--except the law, it seems--that Kirk's got his fingers in a lot of pies, most of them the wrong side of legal. It's also no secret that there's been a run of suspicious drownings lately, all written off as accidents. The river's strong undertow is dangerous, and well, people just aren't careful enough around it anymore.

Right now, McCoy should decline, inventing some believable excuse to keep himself in the clear. It's what any sane physician should do. But for reasons he's not sure he can explain, all that comes out is "Bring him in."

They do. Kirk comes through the door escorted by a straight-backed man with a steadying hand on his elbow. It takes McCoy all of five seconds to direct them both to a windowless exam room; Uhura does not enter with them.

Kirk's in pain; it's clear as day despite the facade of calm he's almost maintaining. He betrays himself in small ways, from uneven respiration to the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. There's blood on his hands, and on his companion's, too.

McCoy peels back the makeshift dressing--shirt sleeve, it looks like--pressed against Kirk's side. Obvious projectile wound, but he was a lucky bastard. Though the bullet had grazed his side and torn him up nicely, it hadn't hit any vital organs or major blood vessels. It's a mess, bloody and painful, but not life-threatening.

The worst of it will have to be stitched. Retrieving clean gauze and suture supplies from the cupboard beside the exam table, McCoy asks--asks, not instructs--Kirk to lie on his side. He then talks Kirk through the procedure like he's any other patient on any other day, and if his voice is a little flatter than usual, well, nobody notices. Kirk watches him intently--him, not the procedure--out of the corner of his eye.

"And if it doesn't look like it's healing up right," he says, when it's over, after he's given Kirk clear instructions on wound care and something for the pain, "or if those stitches don't hold"--if you rip them out doing something stupid, he thinks--"you find yourself a doctor immediately."

"Like you," Kirk says, bluntly. McCoy doesn't answer. "You're efficient," Kirk continues. "I can appreciate that. I have a few _acquaintances_ who would appreciate that, too."

"Do you, now," McCoy says, and he's not sure whether it sounds defiant or defensive.

Kirk laughs; it's a sharp, strained bark of a sound. "I'm in the market for a reliable doctor. My last one was too... talkative." He smiles, showing his teeth.

_Prominent West End Doctor Dies in Boating Accident_. McCoy remembers the headline. It'd been plastered across the front page not six weeks ago.

"I think we can work out an arrangement, can't we?" For the second time in as many minutes, McCoy has no response. Kirk seems to take his silence as agreement, and eases himself down from the exam table, one arm wrapped across his waist. "We'll discuss the details. Soon." His companion steps forward, reaching out a hand; Kirk waves him off, and directs him through the exam room door, instead.

"Thank you," Kirk says, once they're alone. He takes a step toward the door, then turns back. "Doctor, do you like birthdays?"

McCoy's brow furrows. "I... suppose."

Kirk leans in, close enough that McCoy can feel the warmth of breath against his neck. "You keep your mouth shut," he says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "and I'll personally guarantee you see your next one."

He leaves McCoy there, standing with his arms folded in the middle of the exam room. Uhura's heels click across the floor, then she, Kirk, and the third are gone.

McCoy hadn't even voiced a real answer one way or another, and he certainly hadn't taken a pen to the dotted line. Regardless, as he locks the clinic door and grabs his coat from its hook, he can't help but feel he's just signed a contract with the devil.

***


End file.
